


How do I Love Thee? (Let Me Count the Orcs)

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Bonding over killing orcs, Elven marriage rituals, F/M, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Thranduil is more like his son than they realise, elves are weird, or lack of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:37:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3197369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling in love for elves is - simple. Irrevocable.</p><p> </p><p>(A very belated Xmas gift for my husband & beta-reader.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	How do I Love Thee? (Let Me Count the Orcs)

How, I think, how in the midst of such a battle – commanding my elves – a battle for the survival of not only my city, my beloved Ost-in-Edhil, but for all this land, this Eregion, this brave experiment in elves and dwarves living in peace together – how in the midst of this, even as I am rejoicing in the death of orcs, even as I am thinking and reacting and planning – and grieving – how can I be also – rehearsing words to use on this – this arrogant creature of Doriath? 

Yet – how not, when he looks at me in that way, when his hands on my eartips and mine on his feels – different – more urgent – than any others' have before? When he offers me a new name for myself – and it is indeed a good name, I like it – when – something – in me cannot refuse the offer of a wager, a game to make the battle pass more quickly?

 

 

The battle over, I have time at last to speak with this – this city-soft Sindar pretty boy, who carries the manners of that polished, vanished realm with him in his conceit, who fights as though he dances, who counts his kill aloud and vies with me, this – extremely competent general who has a way with words, a dark and bloody sense of humour, and – and if I am honest, fires something within me that none other has ever lit.

“I daresay you are expecting thanks,” I say, because he has that slightly smug expression.

He raises one eyebrow, and of all answers, he finds one I am not expecting,

“Not in the least,” he says, “it would hardly be appropriate at this moment. We both have casualties among our elves, wounded to see cared for, dead to mourn. However, if – if you cared to dispute the outcome of our wager, if you cared to plan for the morrow – sooner or later I shall be having words with Elrond, and the other generals,” he smiles, and it is a deadly warning to someone, “I shall be the one not shouting.”

 

 

Indeed, he is not shouting when I go over to them. He has been, I think, he has been shouting – or at least very angry.

No.

He is one of those cold types, one who the angrier he becomes the quieter and more deadly his voice.

As I approach, he steps away from the discussion to greet me.

“Is all well with your warriors?” he asks, and I am impressed that he thinks of them before anything else.

I sigh.

“As well as can be hoped for after such losses,” I say, and his mouth thins, he turns once more to the gathered Noldor, and I think this cannot be the first time he has met most of them, his speech is so without restraint. At least, for these noble types, his speech is without restraint.

To me, with my years of working among dwarves, he sounds as formal and stilted as the rest.

Almost.

I join the discussion, I learn his name, and it means little to me. 

 

 

 

The days pass, the battles continue. The city may be lost – and of the generals, it seems I alone grieve for the mortal dead as for the elves – but this land we will not give up without a fight. Nay, without fighting every step of the retreat – long we have lived here, my people, long has this country known us, we will not desert it without inflicting losses they will not easily forget upon this dark horde. If these stones must know the touch of such creatures then it seems to me they will forget it more quickly if our blood is spent in their defence – and I would have them say in after ages that they remember the elves who lived here, that we delved deep, builded high, and wrought them into works fair to look upon. 

Our rivalry continues also, this pretty boy and I – but at times, at bloody, sweaty, exhausting, depressing times – it is the only thing which keeps me sane, keeps me laughing and carrying on, keeps my warriors in line. This need to show this pretty boy and his band of – of very proper Sindar – and our years in this land, our years of dealing with the mortal races who dwelt here, our friendships with Men and dwarves show once again as we find we have forgotten some of the polished ways of our own kind – this need is all that keeps us going.

And I suspect there are times when the same is true of him and his.

It becomes routine, more quickly than you would think, to look for him, to touch ears with him, to compare kill-counts with him.

One evening, he turns us aside, as we are walking to compare the day’s events, discuss the morrow, with the other commanders.

“It is hardly the moment, I know,” he says, “But – I find I cannot wait longer to speak. I think – nay – I know – I love you, Calenmiril, and I – I would comb with you, and more.”

I am silent.

He looks at me, and almost in his polished expression there is a hint of – of nervousness. 

“Will you not answer me?” he says, and it is my turn to raise an eyebrow as I do;

“I was not aware, that there was anything in that statement I needed to answer,” I say, adding with a twist of my mouth, “besides, as you say, it is hardly the moment.”

I wonder again about his history, as his eyes narrow in annoyance when I do not act as he wishes, as perhaps some romance has told him to expect me to act. But he does not become impatient, rough, he breathes, slowly, and reaches out to take my hand,

“Then I will try again,” he says, carefully, “I have come to find that I care deeply for you, I would like – very much – to comb with you – to – perhaps – comb together alone. See if – if I am right in thinking this is love – see if you feel the same. And if you do – then – marry.”

I look at him, waiting.

“Would you consider it?” he asks. At last, a question to answer.

“Yes,” I say, “I will consider it,” and I enjoy the look on his face as he has to pretend to be pleased with such quibbling. I cannot keep it up for long. I laugh. “Of course I would like to comb with you – or I would have been far more quick to say no. It is not something I have given much thought to – being busy – but – yes. To find at the end of battle you were not there would be a loss to me – even if it were simply that you were gone back to your life – wherever it is you are when you are not here, digging Elrond out of scrapes.”

He laughs also, and I think we would say more, but – but Glorfindel has spotted us and calls out to us that we had best hurry or there will be no wine left.

“And I am sure Oropherion would suffer with no wine this night,” he adds.

That name should mean something to me, I know it should as much by the way my companion twitches – which he would deny, but it is true, close as we are I can feel it – as by the prompting of my own mind. It does not. I cannot remember who Oropher is, and I am not sure I care.

Quietly, he says,

“May we talk again – when Glorfindel the – incorrigibly curious – is not listening?” and I nod in agreement.

 

 

 

 

All has been quiet for some days.

Too quiet.

Elrond is relaxing, and I begin to see why this pretty Sindar is so scornful of him.

Interestingly, the other two seem unimpressed also – although they are less confrontational about it.

Glorfindel – hero, legend – simply carries on. Does what should be done. Bawls out his own soldiers, and Elrond’s also. 

A straightforward character that one, I think, little going on in that handsome head.

Nice enough, and, I am told, skilled with his comb – but – no surprises there. What you see is what you get.

Erestor – he is a different bag of pebbles. One that would well repay polishing, and housing in a fine setting, it seems to me.

At first, I thought he was merely a scribe. Technically, I think he is not much more – but – I am beginning to suspect that the decisions given out as Elrond’s are as likely to be Erestor’s as not. More so, if they are the right decisions.

Careful, no risk taking. Collect information, assess, process, decide. 

Not flamboyant, no heroics, no name to cheer – but he would be sorely missed.

Not so eye-catching as Glorfindel, yet, I think, his looks are those that might grow on one, until they seemed a quiet perfection. If one were a lover of midnight.

But – quiet as it is – this Sindar and I decide to take a risk. We are not Erestor and – and whoever Erestor combs with – if he combs – we are us. Thranduil and Calenmiril. 

I am not one for midnight, nor for strong noonday sun. I am one for the pale colours of dawn, the shimmer of starlight.

We ride out, talking, and laughing, and – and singing, yes, we are elves, we sing, and we find our voices in harmony.

We are, I suppose, overconfident, each knowing ourselves to be skilled as we are, with knife, and sword and bow. 

After a time we stop, and let the horses graze – let them roll, we say – we do not say – for we are wondering about rolling also – we are not – mortals, dwarves, to laugh in such a way, speak of such things. We are elves. If we were to – act as any two dwarves I have known would act, felt they as we do – we would be married. 

Elven marriages last a long time.

It is best to be sure.

And so – we sit, and we talk, and after a while, we become comfortable together, and – and afterwards I am not sure which of us first turns to the other, which of us first touches hair, and traces down braids, and says,

“Tell me the story of how you won these warrior-braids, let me comb you, comb me, let us for this one time exchange combs, here where none need see or gossip.”

The words are so much part of the song of the day, they need barely be spoken, they are spoken by each of us, it seems, our hearts and songs coming together.

Of course, it is not perfect.

None but a romantic fool would think it could be perfect, combing together alone, for the first time, when we do not, really, know each other so very well, have not combed together before even within a group.

Not perfect – but – there is a something there that makes us both think – yes. And afterwards, when hair has been combed out, and teased, and stroked, and finally rebraided, gently, carefully, into the same patterns as always – afterwards, we lie back, his arm around me, my hand tucked around his ear and there is barely a need for words.

“Marry me,” he says, and then, “please. When – when we have talked a little more – of – of real-life, and homes, and where will you go now, will you come with me, what of your family, what of your people – and when I have spoken of mine – marry me?”

“You would have agreement before we speak of such things?” I ask, lazily, wondering at him, that he is so – eager. No Glorfindel, this one, not one to jump into things without consideration – yet, I suppose, not one to let anything hold him back. Not one to have ever learnt that some things there are that cannot be achieved – and I wonder again, what is he in real-life?

He half-turns away, saying, 

“I would, for I fear I might otherwise not obtain it,” but even as he speaks, the orcs are upon us.

Only a small group.

Fortunately.

And, equally fortunately, we have not been foolish enough to put aside our knives – swords we left behind, bows are out of reach – but knives – knives are an elf’s best friend, as the old song goes.

It takes few moments. They are not very skilled or clever, even for orcs.

Relieved we turn to each other, wiping our knives, sheathing them, and reaching for ears to touch, to know we are safe.

“Six,” he says, and I raise an eyebrow in mock-disdain,

“Seven,” I answer, and he growls, as I know he will,

“But one of mine was the captain,” and I laugh at his predictability,

“It still only counts as one,” I say. But in truth, I think we both know that for all this talk of wagers, and kill-counts, all we really care is that we both are alive, that the words we have just spoken of combing, of marriage – of love – are not wasted.

There is a long moment, as we both think this, stroking ears, reluctant to turn away, to return with the news that they are once more on our trail, that this long defeat is by no means over.

I find – I cannot remember ever standing so close, for so long, touching ears with another. Another with whom I have combed.

He breathes, and my eyes are caught by the way his tongue moves across his lips, as though he is nervous – and can one so perfect be nervous? 

Yes.

I find – elves can be nervous – I am nervous – I have heard of this – when one lives and works among dwarves, one hears much of such things – and, indeed, one sees and hears more than one would like. But still – to feel this – desire – is new.

He swallows, and I watch his throat move.

Without my really planning it, I find one hand has left his ear, and I am stroking down his neck, towards that perfect throat, and then – then my hand is behind his head, and pulling him down – only a little way, there is barely a hands-breadth between us in height – and – and his mouth is on mine.

It feels – soft, and unsure – as I suppose I do – but – somehow – yes.

For the first time, I understand what all the fuss is about.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and I – I find it is necessary to put both arms around him, to hold him, to keep him right where he is – not that he is like to pull away, his arms are round me also – and – the kiss goes on, and on.

Eventually we pull apart – I suppose it cannot be that long really, we both need to breathe – and we look at each other.

“Marry me,” he says again, “tonight. Not here, although I confess, I am tempted – but – I see no reason to wait.”

I give a little laugh, and I run my hand down his body, and oh – oh that is what all the jokes are about. 

Well. 

There is a thought.

“I for one am not sure I can wait,” I say, and the twitch under my hand tells me I am not the only one to think so, “yes. Tonight. Or – as soon as we can find somewhere.”

He nods, once, decisively, and we turn to our horses, to ride back.

It is difficult to ride and hold hands, but we find we can.

I carry his comb, he mine. There is no need for formal words between us, we each know how it is.

Our songs are as one.

We are Thranduil and Calenmiril.

 

 

 

 

We ride back to the camp, glowing, I daresay. 

Elrond it is who meets us, draws us reluctantly over to where the generals are discussing plans, and we find that in our absence it has been agreed that the army should disperse. Words are spoken of falling back, consolidating positions, building new, defensible settlements, self-contained.

We look at one another, and realise this is what we were hoping for. This means – we can – not just marry, but begin a new life together.

As soon as we wish.

“There is nothing more to be done here,” the peredhel continues, and he looks sombre, “I have it in mind to head west a little – out of these lands – to a kindlier valley.” I think he speaks more before he is called away to settle some dispute between his fighters, but I am not listening to his plans.

Erestor it is – of course – who turns to me, and says,

“You are a jeweller, are you not, Calenmiril?”

I nod, and before I can say more, Glorfindel has spoken up,

“A jeweller? I thought you were a warrior.”

I sigh, again,

“At need,” I say, “But for choice – I would not be nothing but a death-bringer.” And then hear my words, and regret them.

Erestor smiles, his small, reserved smile that gives away so little of his thoughts,

“No indeed,” he says, and his eyes are bright as he looks from one face to the next, “who would be only a warrior? I delight in knowing I am more than that – councillor, advisor, librarian – any and all of those. Elrond, we know, plans to be known for his hospitality, his making of a new home, well-defended, for all these refugees, and Thranduil – I think Oropher has many tasks for you, does he not, prince of the woodland realm?” and I am blinking my astonishment, but he carries on, “so I think – I think none of us would want to be only a warrior – Glorfindel?”

Glorfindel laughs, always he is laughing, always, as his eyes sweep over us, and almost I could believe the two of them are playing this up to give me thinking space, seeing my shock, 

“No-one would want to be only a warrior,” he says, “however, I am not – _only_ a warrior – I am Glorfindel.” And he grins, beautiful, and confident and supremely annoying.

But – and this is interesting – Erestor smiles back at him,

“Indeed you are,” he says, “and I think it is time we left these two to their – conversation. Come – comb with my group tonight? I would speak with you of this plan of our lord Elrond’s.”

And they leave, Glorfindel’s arm slung carelessly over Erestor’s shoulders, even as Erestor’s arm finds its way around Glorfindel’s waist.

Interesting, I think. I wonder if they know how often they do that. If they will continue when away from these scenes of battle – or – will they slip into merely a teasing friendship and comb together no more.

But I turn to face my Thranduil, and I again raise my eyebrow to encourage him to explain.

“I was going to tell you,” he says, “sometime.”

I shrug.

“I am an elf,” I say, “I may have lived among dwarves, but – I am an elf. My heart knew you when first we met, as yours did me,” I wrinkle my nose, “had I known your father – it would have made no difference. Though I cannot say I like the thought of leaving all I know – and I doubt a jeweller will please Oropher – he will have been hoping for a better alliance. Need we go there? Are you the heir – or just one of a string of sons who can wander away?”

He blinks in surprise – I do not know which part of that surprises him – and answers me slowly, thinking, but by a trick of speech – useful in royal circles I suppose – seeming merely dignified,

“Yes – and no. I am not my father’s heir, he has never named an heir, I am only one of a string of sons – and we need go to this new kingdom of his, meet his wild Silvans. At least, I need, though – not yet. I had hoped – I had thought to return to Mithlond, to live there awhile with you. Or – or not with you. You – are still free to refuse – though know that if you do I will never be heart-whole again,”

And that would sound like an emotional attempt to bind me beyond what I can bear – were it not said completely without emotion, stating a fact, a fact which may or may not influence my decision – and did I not know I feel the same.

“ – as for my father’s opinion – you may be right. He has not spoken of such matters,” and he shrugs, and how – how can such a dismissive gesture be so beautiful, I wonder? “perhaps if he does not approve we will be the winners – for his words will make no difference to my heart – and if you do not want that life, do not want me named as heir, as I do not wish to be so named – his disapproval may be the best for which we can hope.”

Our eyes meet, and we smile, knowing there is and can be none other for either of us in all this world.

I reach out and take his hand,

“Then, if your royal highness is willing,” I say, and I enjoy his discomfiture at the title, “the sooner we are wed, the better, to my mind.”

Our eyes meet again as my fingers gently run over his wrist, and we find the heat of the afternoon is still there, it was no after-effect of the battle, it was real.

For all that he is – in his way – a warrior – for all that I am also, we do not run, we do not lose all dignity, we do not race, as perhaps some would, casting aside clothes as we go.

No.

We are Thranduil and Calenmiril.

We are above such behaviour.

In truth, I think it is more that we are both – suddenly and uncharacteristically – nervous. We stand there a moment more, and then, 

“My lady,” he says, and for a moment his formality confuses me, then I see the hint of amusement in his eyes at addressing me so on such a subject, “I do not know what arrangements you have – being, as Erestor has now informed you, of royal descent, I have a place alone – it is understood that though I may comb with my warriors, I will not always chose to reverie in company. At least,” he considers this, “until now, I have not. I suppose – that is something that will change. If that is your will also?”

I tighten my grip, it had not occurred to me that we might not reverie together from this night on – and for an instant I am daunted by the differences in our status – but – we are Thranduil and Calenmiril. 

That is all there is to it.

“Then show me this – place,” I say, “I vary the groups of my warriors with whom I comb, none will be overly surprised not to see me this night.”

He does not lead me, that is not his way, we walk together to this – place, as he called it, and I find it is a very comfortable campaign tent. Had Erestor not already name-dropped for me, I think I would have some questions about my beloved’s lineage at this moment.

Once inside, away from any eyes, we are silent a moment longer, and then – then when I fear he is about to become a host, and offer wine, or make futile conversation – I turn against him, and we are pressed close and tight, and – and we kiss again.

This time, this time there is no need to stop, no need to do anything but kiss for as long as we please, even as hands are exploring, unbraiding, for I would have his hair mingled with mine, I would see just how similar our tresses are, see how they will lie together and each seem more perfect than it did alone, a study in contrasts, in shades of pale Sindar blond, and it seems that is also his desire. Even as our fingers untwine braids, we are both finding opportunities to touch ears, and oh the feeling – it is suddenly different, suddenly a new leap of fire sparks from eartips to other parts of me. At last, I think, I understand what all the dwarves I have known have been laughing and blushing over all these years, and for a moment, even now, I feel sadness that there will never be the chance to laugh over such things with my friends – dead or locked within their walls as they now are.

It is only a moment though. I have more important things on my mind.

Such as how to undo my soon-to-be-husband’s beautiful clothes, and cast them on the floor, even as he is doing to mine, and – and then the strength of him, the beauty of him to my eyes. We are elves, there are no surprises in each others’ forms, as I gather can be the case for mortals on such occasions – we have not bathed together, but we have each lived long enough to have seen many elves naked – and never, never has it seemed important before.

It would not now, with any other.

Only with him, my Thranduil.

His hands – his hands are as inquisitive as mine – and oh the wonderful hardness of parts of him – muscle, and – cock. For a moment, I realise the only words I have for such things, are those dwarves use – elves do not speak so – and I suppose he has none. But – we are elves. Words are not needed when there are hands to speak, and song to encourage, and soon enough we are on this bed – and by the comfort of it, I am reminded once more of our disparity in wealth – but it matters not. His hands are travelling over me, as mine explore him, and – and I find that while he enjoys my touch, I – I am as though on fire – I cannot get enough of his hands on my breasts. At least, I think not, until – until one moves to between my legs, and I find – that the feel of him there, the way he touches, and strokes – is so much that I shudder and cling to him, and our songs join, the tunes together even as we kiss, as the words – if there are words in these moments – are lost. 

“You, always,” he says, and I realise we have not bothered to formally make vows – it did not feel important, and indeed, this is all that needs be said, so I repeat, 

“Always, you,” and then, hastily, I think to say, “and please Valar, no elflings from this night – not yet awhile.”

He looks at me, halted in his urgency by my words,

“I thought,” he sounds uncertain, and it is not like him, “I thought one only needed ask _for_ elflings – not to avoid them?”

I shrug, as best I can, 

“I know not, it is not the sort of thing of which my mother was good at speaking,” I pause and then, “however, I am one of eight, all born in the first decade of my parents’ marriage – so I think perhaps she would not have been a good guide. Say it anyway, it can do no harm.”

He wrinkles his nose, in amusement, and says solemnly,

“No elflings please Valar, from this night, and none until we are quite ready. Thank you.”

For an instant I flush, fearing he mocks me, but then he leans forward, and our mouths meet once more, and I know he does not mock, or at least, only a very small amount, he is sincere in his words, and – and above all, we are Thranduil and Calenmiril.

Nothing can come between us or part us.

It shall not, I think, as he slides, carefully, into me, and we find – we find we know how to move, and hold, and please each other. At first, at first I want merely to hold him there, inside me, still, both of us adjusting to this – this newness. Then, then he begins to move, and oh it is sweet, but,

“stop,” I say, and I hold his hips, I keep him very still, and I – I move under him because – yes, yes that is how it should be – and – oh my sweet husband, yes – and he smiles, and leans down to kiss my ear, to take the tip in his mouth and – and that is – oh that is beyond anything, “yes,” I say, “oh yes,” and then – for all I am elf – I am wordless in my delight, and his song is surrounding me, even as mine is him, and we are – joined.

I subside, panting, and he smiles again, and

“More?” he asks, and for a moment I think he jests, because how – how could I bear more – but then – the feeling rushes over me again, and I move even as I am holding him still, and he must wait, he must, I need, I need this, oh how I need it, and I cry out again, my nails digging into him, but he cares not.

This time, when I am still, he touches his nose to mine, and then our mouths meet, and we kiss once more, long, and deep, and his movements mirror those of his tongue for a time, until,

“I – please – I need to keep moving – yes?” he asks, and I wrap myself around him, inviting him further in, taking him into me, holding him tighter than tight, closer than close, my hands playing over his back, touching his eartips as he moves, and then – then he too cries out, and we are both very still.

Our eyes meet, now that we can both see again, and we smile, and smile, and he is as starry and shining as I feel, and I daresay my ears are flushed even as his.

“I did not know,” he says, and the wonder in his voice is in mine also, as I answer,

“No, they do not tell you. No-one does. Elves do not speak of it and – and mortals – they laugh only.”

He nods, and if there is surprise in him, it is a gentle, loving surprise as he says,  
“You have had many mortal friends. It is very – different here. Or was,” and he strokes my ear, comfortingly now, as he adds, “if you like not Mithlond, we need not stay. There are many places we could go. Your trade is one that will make us welcome anywhere, and as for me – I am content so long as I am with you. Besides,” he smiles again, “most places welcome a king’s son with money to spend.”

I wrinkle my nose, I had not thought of it that way. Yes. I suppose most places do.

“We will find somewhere,” I say, “there is no need to hurry to settle. We have all the time in the world, but – I think we should practise this new skill, talented though we both seem to be.”

And we smile.

It is not, I think, so very difficult – and I wonder at mortals, for all their laughter, their understanding, their practice, that they speak of being unable to please, to reach their peak, even after months of trying.

Not that I do much thinking for this – this loving – is beyond anything we have known before, and it is – addictive.

The night is long, and we spend little – little? none – in true reverie, there is too much kissing and talking, and learning of each other, and of how to touch, and – and oh the wonder of this.

Nothing shall part us, until the ending of the world.

We are elves, and we love truly.

In a time of strife we have found each other, and we will not be pulled apart by any force.

We are Thranduil and Calenmiril.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a complex head-canon & backstory for Thranduil & Calenmiril & what happens next. Some of it has been referred to elsewhere, some hasn't yet. Joint fic in progress, hopefully will be finished one day......


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